


Bang bang

by Ginny_Potter



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Albus' thoughts, If you saw the movie you get something if you don't you won't notice anything spoilery, M/M, Not Really Spoilers for FBCOG, POV Second Person, Summer 1899, Young Albus Dumbledore, Young Gellert Grindelwald, flashfic, introspective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-08-26 04:59:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16674961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ginny_Potter/pseuds/Ginny_Potter
Summary: "So that, when my mother died, and I was left the responsibility of a damaged sister and a wayward brother, I returned to my village in anger and bitterness. Trapped and wasted, I thought! And then of course, he came.... [...] Grindelwald. You cannot imagine how his ideas caught me, Harry, inflamed me. [...] Two monts of insanity, of cruel dreams [...]." (HPDH, Ch. 34)Albus' thoughts on Gellert scattered around those two months.





	Bang bang

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> Here's my first fanfiction on the pairing.  
> God, I am so excited. It does not have spoilers of the second movie, as I said in the tags: there is one moment in which if you saw the movie you get the reference, if you didn't, you don't notice anything weird or spoilery.  
> I haven't written in this fandom in ages. Probably like in ten years...?  
> The song I was obsessed with while I was writing it is Bang Bang (My baby shot me down).  
> English is not my first languange so please tell me if something sounds wrong.  
> Thank you and enjoy!

_Seasons came and changed the time_  
_When I grew up, I called him mine_  
_He would always laugh and say_  
_"Remember when we used to play?"_

 

Gellert is like a winter fruit.

Something that shouldn’t be there, you wouldn’t expect it to be there, among dead branches and yellow leaves. You look up and see red berries, perfectly round, where you would think to find only broken ends. They look like small, juicy circles, not even tridimensional, like touches of a brush that has been immerged in carmine varnish.

Gellert is like a winter fruit but it’s summer when he sets foot in Godric’s Hollow for the first time. A hot, heavy summer, so dry that the newspapers keep talking about it, as it is some kind of prodigy. Unexpected, like him. He is blond when you are auburn; he has a smooth jawbone, like a child’s, when you must keep shaving the unruly short stubble daily just to obtain the same result; he wears tight dark clothes, when you prefer the smooth sensation of colorful robes; he practises magic like a conductor when your movements are direct and precise, your aim flawless, like that of an expert fencer. You wonder if he can fence. You wonder if he can duel. You’ll find out soon enough.

 

He is ice when you are fire.

He has eyes like no other.

 

The first time you stare into them is like stepping into a frozen northern lake in the middle of a long winter. You can feel goosebumps creeping on your skin like spiders. Gellert’s eyes are like the two sides of the Moon: one white, milky, cold like a glacier, the other pitch black like a raven’s wing, like the abyss itself. You feel like drowning the first time.

(You feel like drowning all the other times, too.)

Gellert’s hands are always barely warm, even if the sun is burning – even if _you_ are burning ~~under his touch~~ – even if his forehead is beaded with sweat. They are pale and fragile like snowflakes – not when they hold his wand, a twist of bark, then they are strong. You wish to hold them when you watch him waving them to highlight a concept, it’s a consuming desire, an unnatural craving.

He is dawn and you are sunset.

Except sometimes. Sometimes he is one of those sunsets that look like dawns, when the sky is clear, and the clouds look like the accurate design of an architect, when they look like God has put some effort in them. When the sun shines gold and not red.

(Some other times it shines gold _and_ red, when the locks of your hair intertwine on the grass.)

He is sixteen and has the appearance of the muse of a Renaissance’s humanist: golden curls, full mouth, high cheekbones. You play with his hair, you trace over the shape of his lips with a finger – he bites it, looking in your sapphire eyes. You are eighteen and you want to draw him with magic, you want to sculpt in your memory his disheveled self, lying on the grass, his tight stomach, his lean muscles, his relaxed limbs. It’s just a summer but feels like a lifetime.

His name sounds like a spell and you tell him, and he laughs. _It’s the name of a Saint_ , he says, _carried by a sinner_. You smile because you cannot see depravity in him ~~, as God didn’t recognize it in Lucifer~~.

You are enchanted, spellbound, bewitched.

He speaks your desires, your deepest thoughts, your shameful secrets. He spells them as he already knows them, before you can even elaborate them in your own mind. He knows you as you are not sure you know yourself. He can tell what you are thinking, he doesn’t need Legilimency, he just _knows_.

You ask him to read his mind, for practice, you say,            he

                                                                                                    just

                                                                                                             does.

You hold his hand in the end, you grasp it, you tremble and close your eyes. He doesn’t. He is strong and sure and his eyes – those eyes, they will _haunt_ _you_ for the rest of your life – are scrutinizing your every breath, every tremor, every gulp.

 

Indeed, you hold his hand.

                                                                                                                                                                             He

                                                                                                                                                                                     holds

                                                                                                                                                                                                 your

                                                                                                                                                                                                           soul.

 

 _Now he's gone, I don't know why_  
_And 'till this day, sometimes I cry_  
_He didn't even say goodbye_  
_He didn't take the time to lie_


End file.
